Black Swan
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: Emma Swan is the best ballerina in the world. She moves to Chicago to star in the Joffrey Ballet's production of Swan Lake, but she doesn't expect to meet her match in choreographer Killian Jones. Killian frustrates her, excites her, challenges her, annoys her, and thrills her - and if she lets him, he'll be the one to break down her walls. Emma/Killian, ballet AU.


**A/N:** **I haven't written fanfiction in almost four years, but this couple has completely taken over my life in the past couple months. And this fic kind of happened without me really having any say over it – I've been devouring every story I can find about Captain Swan, and somehow I ended up writing this unbelievably long AU about Emma being a ballerina and Killian being her choreographer…honestly, I have no idea, but now here it is for your enjoyment!**

 **Disclaimer: I know absolutely zero about ballet. I have two left feet actually, and so please excuse any of my mistakes with terminology or processes, etc.**

 **Special thanks to emlovesyouu for beta-ing this ridiculously long fic and answering all my silly questions with immeasurable patience. You're the best!**

 **Thanks so much for reading! Comments and favorites are much appreciated**

 _You set off avalanches in my heart_ _  
_ _\- "This is Beautiful" by Tyrone Wells_

"You must be the new prima."

Emma snaps her head around, interrupted in the tedious task of lacing up the pale pink ribbons on her well-worn ballet slippers. A pair of bright blue eyes greets her (blue like the ocean, bluer than she's ever seen), and she stifles her gasp of surprise.

"I – I am," she replies, inwardly cursing herself for her stuttering. She's normally more composed than this, not normally so flustered when she meets strangers. But this isn't just any stranger approaching her. This is –

"Killian Jones." He extends his hand for her to shake, and she takes it after a moment's hesitation, briefly transfixed by the smooth lilt of his voice, the steady pulse of his eyes locked with hers. His fingers are rough, callused, strong – dancer's hands, meant to lift a ballerina high in the air. But then, she knows he hasn't lifted a ballerina in years.

 _Come on Emma, pull yourself together_ , she scolds herself. No need to be dissecting his life story in her head right now.

"I know."

She curses herself again. She'd meant to introduce herself, but instead she's only succeeded in revealing her stalkerish tendencies. What a great start to her career at the Joffrey Ballet.

Killian raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, and she feels a shiver of…something.

"You've heard of me, love?" There's a teasing edge to his voice, and it stops her from bristling – normally, she hates pet names.

She shrugs, trying to take control of the situation (she can tell she's so clearly out of her depth with this guy, and she has to get back in it). "Who hasn't in the ballet world? You're probably the world's best choreographer right now, not to mention that you were the best male ballet dancer this company – and probably the country – has ever seen. At least, you were before your accident."

She shoots a pointed glance at his injured hand – the skin is red and angry, webbed with scars, and he flexes under her gaze.

She drags her eyes back up to his piercing stare. "Of course I've heard of you."

He's smirking now, a challenge in those impossibly blue eyes, and she suspects she's caught him off-guard. Maybe no one has ever been willing to mention his fame to him – or, more accurately, the promise of what he could have been, before the accident that cost him his career and relegated him to choreography long before he was ready. It's a famous story in her circle, and against her better judgment, she's intrigued.

"Well, Miss Swan," he drawls, jolting her out of her reverie (even though obviously he knows her name, he's the choreographer of the production she's dancing in for God's sake). "It appears you've done your homework. But love, you forget two can play that game."

She cocks her head, returning his challenge with her own fire.

"Emma Swan," he announces, and she hates that she loves the way her name sounds on his lips. "Darling of the ballet world, expected to be the next Margot Fonteyn, until you mysteriously disappeared when you were 18 –" she winces, unpleasant memories fighting for dominance in her addled brain " – Only to burst back onto the scene four years ago, somehow even better than you were before, shocking everyone with dazzling performance after dazzling performance. And now here you are, fresh from the American Ballet Theatre, for the role you know will make or break your career."

He pauses, and she steels herself. He's gotten the bare bones of her story right, but all of that stuff is on Wikipedia.

She has a feeling he knows even more than he's letting on.

"Did I get it right?" He asks, and for a split second vulnerability flashes across his unfairly handsome face.

She shrugs nonchalantly. She has no idea what's going on here – only that she likes it.

"You forgot the part where I kick ass at this role and make you and this entire company look good."

He grins, a heart-stopping stretch of perfectly white teeth, and she bites down her answering smile. It won't do to be attracted to the choreographer, not when they'll be spending so much time together over the next few months, not when this role means so much to her.

(Not when she's sworn off men pretty much forever.)

"Well, Swan, I look forward to that very much," he assures her, that teasing edge still in his voice, and now he's stepped into her space, inky black hair falling over those eyes, and it takes her a concentrated effort to hold his hypnotic gaze but she does it. "Now, hurry along. I'm sure you have a lot of people to meet, and we'll definitely be seeing a lot of each other in the future. At least, I certainly hope we do."

She gulps. She nods. She tries to pretend that his nearness isn't affecting her at all, isn't making her heart rate speed up and her palms sweat.

He walks away, and she only has time to admire the curve of his obviously toned backside in his jeans for a moment before he's winking at her over his shoulder, catching her in the act of ogling him.

Her cheeks burn. She is so screwed.

…

Her first day at the Joffrey Ballet is a blur of introductions, just as she expected, and she struggles with her nerves the whole time. It's not often that ballet companies cast dancers from other companies in their major productions, especially not Swan Lake, arguably the Joffrey's biggest seller. It's even less often that ballet companies promise a ballerina a secure home after said production has finished its run. Emma knows how lucky she is for this opportunity, and she also knows that she has something to prove. She would begrudge any dancer in her position, and she knows she's in for a chilly reception. And it's really okay. She's not here to make friends – she's here to dance until she can't breathe.

(She's here for Henry.)

But she's pleasantly surprised to find everyone in the company incredibly kind and welcoming. Maybe it's the Midwestern hospitality, but she is taken aback by how every single person she meets shakes her hand, telling her they can't wait to dance with her, and generally seems more genuine and accepting than she deserves.

Perhaps she'll make some friends here after all.

She's in the middle of a conversation with a member of the corps when she sees her first familiar face.

"David!" She calls out, lighting up as she runs into his outstretched arms. The older man picks her up and twirls her around, laughing when she squeals ungracefully.

He lets her down at last, regarding her with a warm smile. "Emma! How has my favorite girl been?"

She giggles, and they fall into easy conversation, catching up on his wife's reentry into the company after the birth of their son (Mary Margaret is a member of the corps, definitely around here somewhere, and Emma can't wait to see her), how Emma's been coping since their stint together at the American Ballet Theatre, the gossip of the ballet world, etc. Emma has known David since she first started dancing, and he's always been something of a father figure to her, always been the one to advise her on her career, always been the one to shelter her from the press and the prying eyes. He also knows the real reason why she left ballet 10 years ago – she trusts him.

Which is why she's incredibly grateful that he'll be playing the male lead alongside her in Swan Lake. She's danced with men she's been attracted to before, and it has never ended well. Much better to dance with a friend, especially when that friend is one of the best dancers of his generation, all strong lines and masculine finesse and huge verticals.

Of course, as magnificent a dancer as David is, he doesn't hold a candle to Killian. Emma saw Killian dance once, a long time ago, and she was utterly captivated. She was 15, trying to decide if she was going to seriously pursue ballet as a career, and she saw him dance the lead in Swan Lake (karma is a funny thing, after all). He was only 19, but he was already being heralded as the greatest new talent ballet had seen in decades. And when she saw him dance, she knew why. He was bewitching.

She shakes her head, trying to think of anything other than Killian Jones dancing. She should be focusing on all the hard work that lies ahead of her.

Even so, she can't resist nudging David and asking, "So, you know Killian, right?"

David doesn't even look up, busy with getting Emma set up with a locker (he's always taken care of her, and she can't help but smile fondly). "Yeah, of course I do. He's been with the company as long as I have. Why?"

Emma hesitates. She has no good reason for inquiring about the famous choreographer.

But she decides to be honest. This is David. He's never judged her, not even when she got pregnant at 18 and essentially abandoned ballet.

"Nothing," she hedges, shifting her weight from foot to anxious foot. "I just – I met him earlier, and we kind of had a weird conversation."

David looks up now, his eyes flashing with concern. "Weird how?"

She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. Just…weird."

David furrows his brow, straightening as he helps her put her pointe shoes and leotards in her locker. "Well, be careful, Emma. Killian is a good man, and obviously, he's the best choreographer I've ever seen. But –"

"But what?" Emma interjects. She's so curious it almost hurts.

David sighs. "He sleeps around," he says bluntly. "He kind of has a reputation in the company."

Emma laughs. "I thought you were going to say he's a serial killer or something, you looked so serious."

David frowns, his best fatherly face on. "I am serious. You don't want to get involved with him."

Emma huffs, crossing her arms. Having grown up without parents (she could hardly count her many foster families), she doesn't know what it's like to have an overprotective father, but she suspects it would be a lot like this. "David, I have no intention of getting involved with Killian. And even if I did, it would be none of your business. I can take care of myself, you know."

David's face softens, and he slings an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the studio where she'll be practicing her technique with the other dancers every morning. "I know," he says, taking his spot next to her at the barre. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to take care of yourself all alone."

Emma looks away, focusing on her plies. She knows he's remembering Neal, remembering the bastard who'd run off on her without warning, leaving her pregnant and unable to pursue the career she'd so desperately wanted. David had tried to help her then, tried to talk to the American Ballet Theatre and let her stay after she delivered the baby and got out of jail, tried to help her raise Henry. She hadn't let him, choosing instead to do it all on her own, as she always has.

Now, she only smiles at David. "Thank you," she says, and she means it. She's learned since having Henry that she does need help, and that it's okay to ask for it sometimes.

David smiles back, and then he's introducing her to the people she'll be dancing with for the next several months.

There's Ruby, a tall, leggy brunette who makes fun of Emma as soon as she hugs her – Emma knows she's going to like her. There's Elsa, blond and ethereal, truly the consummate ballerina, and with a smile as warm as the sun. There's Anna, Elsa's sister, bubbly and effervescent and potentially too talkative for Emma's liking, but very sweet. There's Regina, a bit of an edge to her red lipstick smile, a touch of acidity to her fluid lines and clean pirouettes (Emma recognizes the signs of heartbreak and knows they should be friends). There's Robin, broad-shouldered and wide-grinned; Graham, quiet-spoken and kind-eyed; Victor, clearly eccentric but with a kind of intoxicating energy.

And then Mary Margaret, who despite the fact that Emma didn't return her calls for years, merely folds Emma into a wonderfully tight hug and whispers in her ear, "We're so glad to have you here."

Tears well in Emma's eyes at this. She'd come to the Joffrey for Henry. Being at the ABT had been a dream come true, of course, and she wouldn't trade her four years there for the world. But it had involved a lot of touring, often Europe for weeks at a time, and she knew it wasn't fair to her son. So when word had gotten out that the Joffrey was looking for some fresh blood, she'd called David and gotten herself an audition. Dancing for the Joffrey meant months at a time in Chicago – it meant stability. And Henry deserved that, especially since they'd spent the first six years of his life traipsing around the country, Emma doing any job she could get hired for, ignoring that little voice in her head (and David's pleading voicemails, naturally) that said that she should be dancing.

The point was, Emma was doing this for Henry. But being in Mary Margaret's arms – maybe being at the Joffrey wouldn't be so bad for her, either.

…

Emma's first few weeks with the Joffrey pass quickly. She spends her days getting acquainted with the premises, dancing nonstop from 8:30 to 4:30 (with workshops after that, of course), and collapsing into her bed at 10 PM after making dinner for Henry, helping him with his homework, and listening about his day despite her bleary eyes and pounding head. Having a ballet dancer for a mother isn't ideal, she knows, especially at the age of 10, but she hopes that it will inspire him to always pursue his passions, no matter what, and in the meantime she's going to do her damnedest to at least be present for the precious few hours she's at home.

Despite her exhaustion, Emma is, quite frankly, having the time of her life. She's never been a part of a company as supportive as the Joffrey. The ABT is the best for a reason, and in her experience that meant countless competitive dancers tearing each other down and sparing little compassion for each other. Being at the Joffrey is a totally different experience – everyone always showers her with praise, hugs her after every jump. It's humbling.

It doesn't hurt that David and Mary Margaret completely take her and Henry under their wing. She and Henry somehow fall into a routine of having dinner at David and Mary Margaret's sprawling townhouse near Hyde Park every Sunday, and often Emma joins them for drinks after their long day of dancing has ended. They easily fold her into their circle of friends, and Emma finds herself – quite unexpectedly – seeking out Ruby and Elsa on her own, until she can consider them just as much her friends as Mary Margaret's. They have girls' nights and fawn over the incredibly well-muscled male dancers (especially the young ones, because Ruby has an inappropriate mind), and it's the closest thing to home Emma has had in a long time.

And she has never danced a role as complicated or difficult as Odette. They're only in the preliminary stages of the dancing, doing the basic stuff that comes as naturally as breathing to her now, but she knows she's in for a challenge, and she can't wait.

Of course, there's only one problem.

Killian.

Emma sees him all the time. He's the choreographer, after all – he's always in the studio, directing them on which technique to focus on for the day. He's nothing but polite to her, praising her with a gentle voice when she executes an arabesque well, smiling at her when she asks him a question about how high to hold her foot in her turnout. He's unfailingly polite to her, in fact, and it pisses her off.

After their first meeting, which was practically electric with back-and-forth quips and witticisms, she had hoped that she and Killian would become friends. It's been a long time since she's met someone who could keep her on her toes, and she had thought that they could keep up their sarcastic banter. But even though she can feel his eyes on her throughout most of their long days (hot and heavy and full of questions she wants to answer), it sometimes seems like he's…avoiding her. He begs off whenever she invites him to drinks with the crew after work, and he ignores her thinly veiled requests for one-on-one attention with her assemblés. She has no idea what she might have done to upset him, but she has no other explanation for his distant behavior.

She comforts herself with the knowledge that soon enough, it'll just be him and her and sometimes David – at least for the pas de deux – in the studio. They'll have to work on her complicated solos soon, and it doesn't make sense for the whole company to be involved in that task. They'll be working on the ensemble pieces, and she'll be with Killian. He won't be able to avoid her then.

She hopes.

…

But soon enough, Emma decides she has to talk to Killian. She's finally finding her footing in the company – David pretty much glows with pride after every rehearsal, not to mention that she thinks she can safely consider most people in the company her friends, if not her support system. But it bothers her that things remain so awkward between her and Killian. They've had a few one-on-one sessions together, and still, he holds himself at a distance, as if he's afraid of her or something. She's always prided herself on having good relationships with her choreographers, and she feels off-kilter without the easy companionship that helps her dance quicker, sharper, cleaner.

(She also misses the man she met that first day of work, but she'll never admit that.)

One Friday after rehearsal has ended, the studio empties out faster than normal, everyone anxious to get their weekend started. Killian lingers, though, making sure the stereo is in order for the next day's dances, straightening the lines of practice slippers against the wall. Emma lingers, too, undoing her hair from its unforgivably tight bun, rolling a tennis ball up and down her tight hamstrings.

And suddenly Killian and Emma are the only people in the studio, and as he moves to turn off the lights, he finally catches sight of her.

"Swan!" He exclaims, grinning jovially. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

She blushes despite herself. She's only gotten a few chances to flirt with him since she arrived here, and she forgot how flustered he can make her with one teasing comment. But she forges on, determined to at least have the resemblance of a friendship with him.

"Well," she says, slowly walking towards him, nervously fingering the hem of her leotard, "I was wondering why you haven't been able to look me in the eyes in weeks, why you never respond to my questions about steps with more than one-word answers, why you never hang out with all of us after work. Did I do something to offend you?"

He blinks, clearly startled by this barrage. And admittedly, she's startled, too. She didn't expect to be so blunt with him. Not exactly what she planned, but then, things tend not to go as planned in her life.

"Swan," he begins, scratching behind his ear. She wonders if it's a nervous tic.

He doesn't say anything else, and she smiles a little. The great Killian Jones, speechless. What a time to be alive.

"Jones," she says playfully, now close enough to him that she can see the tendrils of yellow ringing his pupil. "All I'm saying is you've been acting weird, and I want to know what I did."

He sighs, and there's something like conflict in those inimitable eyes of his. "You didn't do anything, Swan."

She waits.

"I just…" He looks away, hand trailing through his delightfully disheveled hair, and she finds herself tracing his fingers with her eyes. "You remind me of someone. Someone I'd rather forget."

She brittles at the insinuation, but tries to ignore her impulse to take offense. He's being honest with her – isn't that what she wanted?

He brings his gaze back to hers, and she stills. She'd forgotten how much he unnerves her.

"I don't mean that the way it sounds," he assures her, and she wonders why he feels the need to placate her. "I just…a lot of painful memories have been coming up, and I don't exactly do well with the past. But I didn't mean to take it out on you, love. I promise to be a complete gentleman from now on."

She giggles, then stops herself. Emma Swan never giggles. "Why are you always so proper?"

He chuckles in response, and only now does she register that somehow they have continued to move closer throughout their conversation, close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. "I'm from England, love. Being proper runs in my blood."

She nods, suddenly feeling warm all over. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to confront him about his awkwardness. At least when he was avoiding her, she could forget how stupidly attracted she was to him.

So she just looks down and takes a minute step backwards, enough that she catches his face fall just above her field of vision.

"Anyways, no need to apologize," she says lightly. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't doing anything to make you uncomfortable."

Killian tips her chin up, his fingers tracing small circles on her skin. His eyes search hers, fierce and demanding, and she gulps.

She is _so_ screwed.

"Don't worry, Swan," he all but growls, his touch like fire. "You did absolutely nothing to make me uncomfortable."

He drops his fingers from her chin and steps away, smirking that smirk that has her squirming a little.

"At least, not in any way I didn't like."

She scoffs, nudging his shoulder in mock-contempt, but she's secretly glad he's flirting with her again.

"Oh come now, Swan," he teases her. "Can't take a little heat?"

She rolls her eyes, and he grows serious again, his eyes locking with hers. "Want to grab a coffee?" He asks, and she can tell he's making a valiant effort to get them back on easy ground.

She thinks about it. In all honesty, she would love to grab a coffee with him. She's very curious about the man beneath the gruff exterior, and she wants to at least hear about his dancing. She likes him.

But she hesitates, because Henry is waiting for her outside the building. On Fridays he goes to chess club after school and then meets her at the studio so they can go to Granny's for dinner before curling up on the couch with a Disney movie (the crazy life of a single mother). Killian doesn't know about Henry.

"I would love to," she says. "If you don't mind my son coming with us, that is."

Killian raises an eyebrow, but is otherwise surprisingly unperturbed. "Your son?"

She nods, and she can almost feel him try not to look at her ring finger. This is the reaction she always gets when she tells men about her son.

To his credit, Killian takes it in stride. "Sounds good," he simply says, putting his hand on the small of her back and gently leading her out the door.

Her skin tingles at the contact.

…

Emma and Henry have coffee with Killian at the coffee shop down the street from the studio, and it's…nice.

He's a good conversationalist, as she expected, and he's really good with Henry, almost scary good. In fact, Emma thinks Henry pays more attention to Killian than he does to his own mother. He asks him all these questions about the cities he saw when was dancing all over the world and what his favorite food in Europe is. Killian answers all of his queries patiently, without even a hint of condescension, and honestly, Emma thinks the afternoon couldn't have gone better.

Of course, there's a twinkle in Killian's eyes every time he looks at her, and he keeps nudging her and somehow getting closer to her, and he flirts with her every chance he gets – shamelessly, and in front of her 10-year-old.

Oh, boy.

…

She isn't sure exactly how it happens, but getting coffee with Killian and Henry after rehearsal on Fridays becomes a routine. That first Friday, coffee is lovely, of course, but she doesn't expect it to happen again. Her only intention was to make things less awkward between them – not to have a standing date.

The next Friday, though, Emma again lingers after rehearsal, almost by accident. She's taking her time unraveling her braid, yes, but she _does_ mean to leave on time. She has to meet Henry and go to Granny's for dinner, after all.

But as she's walking out the studio door, Killian's hand at her elbow stops her. "Care for a coffee, Swan?"

She smiles, and agrees almost without her own volition.

And so they go for coffee, and they go for coffee the week after, and the week after that, and the week after that. Henry starts to mention coffee as he's running out the door Friday mornings, and his face lights up every time she and Killian walk out of the studio. The three of them have hours-long conversations about topics as diverse as the new Star Wars movie coming out and whether Trump will actually win the Republican nomination. It's…lovely, for lack of a better word. And it makes her kid happy, so she won't complain.

One day, about three weeks after their first coffee date, Killian is pulling on his coat and getting ready to leave the café when Henry excitedly asks him if he'll join them for dinner at Granny's, exclaiming that he can have grilled cheese and onion rings just like Emma. Killian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then he grins, a childish, wonderful thing that makes Emma glow. He shoots a sideways glance at her, looking for approval, clearly, and she appreciates it – most guys wouldn't even bother asking her.

So she nods, and dinner at Granny's becomes a weekly routine, too. They all know that it makes zero sense to go to coffee and then to dinner, but Henry and Killian clearly can't get enough of each other (one day Emma tucks Henry in after a grueling day of rehearsals, only to find her son texting emojis of all things to Killian), and Emma has to admit that she loves their lazy Fridays.

Two weeks after their first dinner at Granny's, Henry invites Killian to come watch Up with them after dinner. He does it slyly, waiting until Emma and Killian are distracted with the check (Killian always insists on paying, and Emma always fights him on it) to suggest that Killian come home with them.

Emma and Killian are both dumbfounded. Killian must be surprised that this 10-year-old wants to spend so much time with him, while Emma is surprised that Henry has opened up so much to Killian. She's never invited any of the men she's dated (not that she and Killian are dating, of course) to her apartment. She's always liked to keep those parts of her life separate and protect Henry, and Henry has always seemed to prefer it that way.

It's a big deal for Henry to open himself up to a man (rare for Emma, too, obviously), and he needs a male role model, so she says yes.

It's a little awkward as they walk the five blocks to her apartment. The Chicago chill is seeping into all of their bones, despite the many layers of fabric shielding them from the wind, and Henry is squashed between Emma and Killian, his cheeks pink and chubby. Killian has an arm slung around both of them, and Emma finds that she doesn't mind the pressure of his gloved fingers on her back, even if huddling together makes it a little difficult to maneuver the crowded streets. Henry babbles the entire way, probably to make up for Emma and Killian's silence (he seems determined not to say anything, and she sure as hell has nothing to add to the conversation), and finally they arrive at Emma's apartment.

Emma fumbles for her keys, ignoring Henry's rambling behind her – he's going on and on about how sad the first scene of the movie is and how they have to make sure they have tissues ready. He continues to ramble in the elevator about how Pixar reinvented itself with Up and how Killian will love it, even though he apparently won't get any of the references since he's British, and Emma continues to pay no attention to her son, because she's pretty much vibrating with nerves. She's never had a man in her apartment. She really hasn't had time to date since she joined the Joffrey, and even if she did, she wouldn't bring the date back to her apartment. The apartment is her and Henry's sacred place, where they watch cartoons on Sunday mornings and bake cupcakes on weekday nights – or burn them, more accurately. She doesn't want to compromise their sacred place.

But strangely enough, she trusts Killian. She's gotten to know him pretty well over the past couple of months, and she's seen how good he is with Henry. He's protective of him, considerate, thoughtful, always asking him what he's learning in school and if he likes chess club. And he's always been great with Emma – she can freely admit that now. He knows exactly how to give her criticism during rehearsal without making her feel like an idiot, he always knows when she needs a break, and his eyes are only ever filled with kindness, admiration, concern, compassion. He's a good man, and he's a constant presence. So many people have left her over the years, or flaked out on her when she least expected it, but like clockwork, every Friday afternoon he leads her out the door and asks her if she wants to go to coffee.

So she takes a deep breath, and she opens the door to her apartment, and she steels herself for whatever comes next.

"Quite a place you've got here, Swan," Killian says warmly, taking her coat for her like the gentleman he always is. "Very cozy."

She laughs. Normally she'd take offense at the word "cozy" – in her experience, it's been used as a euphemism for "small" – but in his lilting accent, it sounds more like the compliment he surely means it as. "Why thank you," she says in response, sauntering into her apartment and watching Henry set up the DVD player with the manic excitement only a 10-year-old can muster. "Would you like a beer or anything?"

"A beer would be nice."

She throws him a look over her shoulder, and for a moment his presence in her apartment startles her. He's standing there in a plaid button down and jeans (jeans that hug his ass just so, as she noticed in their very first conversation), hands shoved into his pockets, and he looks so adorable that she can't help but smile. She's heard about Killian Jones, the famous dancer and choreographer, for as long as she's been dancing, and now he's in her living room.

Life is funny sometimes.

She grabs two beers from the fridge while Henry begs Killian to come join him, and then sits next to them on the couch, Henry squished comfortably between them.

Predictably enough, Killian proves to be an incredible movie-watching partner. He laughs in all the right places, ruffling Henry's hair when Henry has a giggling fit that he can't control and getting all the witty one-liners before Emma does. He doesn't talk too much, unlike David and Mary Margaret, who Emma can't stand to watch a movie with. And he doesn't overstep his boundaries, doesn't try to put his arm around her, doesn't tell Henry to stop talking no matter how many important scenes he interrupts.

He's perfect, really, and when the movie ends, she doesn't want him to leave.

But he does leave, of course, because he's Killian and he's a gentleman. She quietly puts Henry to bed – he fell asleep during the movie, as he always does – and when she comes back Killian is fully dressed again, complete with grey peacoat and black leather gloves and baby blue hat pulled adorably over his messy hair.

Emma feels a pang of something she can't quite distinguish. "I'll see you on Monday?" She asks tentatively, smiling at him.

He grins. "Of course, Swan."

He strides over to her, and for a second she wonders if he's going to kiss her – his eyes are electric blue, like they are whenever he's waiting for something, and his jaw is set. But he merely leans down and brushes his lip against her cheek, saying gently, "I can hardly wait."

Only when he leaves does she realize she was holding her breath the whole time.

…

Everyone in the company thinks they're dating.

It shouldn't surprise Emma. After all, every Friday without fail, she lingers in the studio after rehearsal so she and Killian can meet Henry for coffee, and obviously the dancers in the corps pay attention to the prima waiting for the choreographer. Killian also goes out with the crew now, which is enough to make Ruby and Elsa raise their eyebrows the first time he joins them at the bar for drinks (Emma gets the sense that generally he's a bit of a recluse). And Killian comes to Mary Margaret and David's townhouse for Sunday dinner every weekend, which Emma of course doesn't register as a double date because Leo cries the whole time and Henry peppers everyone with adorable questions. David even pulls her aside one day before rehearsal to tell her that he was wrong about Killian and that he's a trustworthy man who will take good care of her (Emma has a sneaking suspicion that David gave Killian a stern speech about his "intentions"). Killian and Emma spend most of their time together, and so it shouldn't surprise Emma that people assume they're _together_.

But she's still taken aback when Ruby casually asks if Killian's injured hand gets in the way of their sex life (Emma vehemently responds that she has absolutely no way of knowing). She's still flabbergasted when one of the junior dancers politely asks if Emma will be inviting all the dancers in the Joffrey to the wedding (Emma splutters out a "We're not engaged," but just barely). And she still can't hold back her nervous laughter when Mary Margaret stops setting her up on blind dates and instead remarks that it's nice to see Emma so happy, especially with someone as lovely as Killian (Emma scoffs and has to resist the urge to swat her arm). It's disconcerting to her that everyone assumes she and Killian are dating.

About a month before opening night, Killian is helping Emma with a complicated sequence of steps, his hands gentle but firm on her waist as he turns her body this way and that. He's teasing her like always, his voice soft in her ear while he compliments her form but mocks the tension in her shoulders, and something in her gives way.

"You know," she says, trying to sound unaffected despite the loud rush of blood in her ears, "Everyone in the company thinks we're dating."

Killian's hands still on her waist. "Oh, really?"

His tone is light, but Emma chances a glance at him in the mirror, and his eyes are burning.

"Yeah," she says, gaining courage from the minute tightening of his hands on her sides. "The corps members want to know when we're getting married, and Mary Margaret keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints. It's pretty funny, actually."

Killian suddenly moves to face her, his hands darting up her body until he's cradling her face and she's struggling to breathe. "Is that something you think about, Swan?"

Emma trembles. When did she lose control of this situation? "I mean, I –"

She can't finish, probably because his eyes are blazing, searching hers fiercely, and he's not moving away, he's not looking away, and she feels warm, too warm, but she's powerless to break the tension first, and he's just so –

"It's okay if you do," he says, and the world has gone so quiet that she can hear his heart pounding. "I do, sometimes. How could I not?"

Killian smiles at her, a soft thing that Emma feels in her bones, and his thumbs graze her cheekbones. She gulps. She's not ready for this. She's not ready for what he's offering.

She steps back from him, his hands sliding from her face as the light goes off in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she says, and she is, she is because she's so broken and it's just not fair to him. "Our friendship is too important to me."

He nods, his face pinched, and they stand in awkward silence. She hates herself, but she can't make herself reach for him.

(She's a coward.)

Killian must make some sort of decision, though, because now his eyes smolder and he presses her up against the mirror before she can even register the hard lines of his body skimming hers. His palms rest flat on the glass on either side of her head, and his eyes drop to her lips. He's so close, so much, and Emma feels lust radiate from her every nerve ending.

"You know, Swan," he says, his fingers trailing along her leotard strap, caressing her collarbone, "I think you're just scared."

Emma blinks. This _man_.

"Oh please," she fires back. "You couldn't handle it."

Killian smirks at her, pushing his hips into hers just enough that she winces, desire flooding her body until she feels weak.

"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it," he argues, voice heavy with promise as he pops the "t" with a sinful click of his tongue.

He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and Emma knows he's right.

She really can't handle this.

…

They never talk about it. They just go back to normal, as if nothing ever happened.

After all, Emma Swan is nothing if not a coward.

…

Two weeks before opening night, Emma comes in early to practice Odette's particularly complicated sequence of steps. It's very much crunch time. She has all the basic stuff down – just last week Mary Margaret told her that her every move was flawless – but it's not enough to just have it down. She wants to be incandescent. She gave up a coveted spot at the ABT to dance this role, and a lot of people have called her crazy since she got here. She has to prove them wrong. Neal told her once that she was never going to make it, that she should just give up now. He has to be wrong. She has to show him – and everyone – that he was wrong.

So she's at the studio before anyone else will even bother to come and warm up. She likes the studio most like this – quiet, calm, the locker room empty except for the comforting presence of her favorite pale pink shoes on her shelf, the air still, the world slowing to a stop as she pulls on her tights and leg warmers. She likes being alone.

But when she walks into the warm-up studio, it's not empty.

No, it's not empty – Killian Jones is in the studio. And he's dancing. Killian Jones, who retired eight years ago and hasn't danced so much as a step since. Killian Jones, who devoted himself to choreography only because his hand literally got flattened by several tons of metal, badly enough that he could never lift a dancer again.

Killian Jones is dancing.

Emma stands transfixed in the doorway, afraid to move even the slightest bit. She doesn't want him to stop dancing. If she had her way, he would never stop dancing.

His back is to her, and he's executing a complicated series of fouettes, spinning so quickly that his eyes skate over the doorway without registering her presence. His floppy hair is bouncing with every beat – she recognizes the music, Tchaikovsky, so beautiful that she's moved to dance herself – and there's such grace and power in the rhythmic spin in his legs. She's mesmerized as he turns, his arms floating through the air with a precision that leaves her aching with jealousy.

She's not surprised that his technique is flawless; he trained at Juilliard and then he was with the ABT, under the best ballet teacher in the world. But as she watches him dance alone in the studio, the lights dimmed, the mirror reflecting his strained muscles, the words from the New York Times review of the production of Swan Lake he starred in when he was 19 echo in her head:

"Killian Jones is a classically trained dancer. His pirouettes are sharp and clear, his jetes are the exact right height, and he never, in a three-hour performance, misses a single step. Killian Jones is perhaps the best technically trained dancer I have seen since Mikhail Baryshnikov. But it's not his technique that makes Killian Jones' dancing so utterly transcendent. It's something else entirely. It's passion, the kind of unbridled passion that only comes from needing ballet to breathe. Jones is only 19. But he dances as if he has always known that he needed ballet to breathe. Jones dances like he was born to. He is the best this newspaper has ever seen."

Emma doesn't know how long she stands there, captivated by Killian soaring through the air, by the ease with which he bends and twists his impossibly limber body, by the pure joy radiating on his face.

She doesn't think she's ever seen him this happy.

Finally, when her breath has all but caught in her throat and her world has been reduced to the stretch of his smile, he looks at her.

She assumes she must have made a noise, but he doesn't look surprised to see her. His eyes are calm as they sweep over her, his gaze clear and unwavering, and she wonders how long he has known she's watching him.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move to pause the music. He simply holds out his hands and waits.

(He's always waiting for her.)

She, in turn, doesn't hesitate. She sets her sweater in the cubby behind her, stretches her arms over her head, and walks toward him, gingerly testing out her pointe shoes. She reaches him in a few strides, taking his hands in hers, and he gives her a slight nod.

Today his eyes are the color of the ocean at dawn, and she wants to drown in them.

Without so much as a word between them, or even a conscious thought on Emma's part, they start dancing.

They do the simplest duet in the production, the pas de deux in the opening scene, and they do it so fluidly that she's dumbfounded. It usually takes her weeks to adjust to dancing with a new partner; she normally has to get used to the feeling of their hands on her waist, the weight of their chest behind her, the awareness of their position on the stage. She scares easily, and a man's hands on her? Always an adjustment.

But with Killian, there's no learning curve. He anticipates her next movement before her own body has registered her intention – he obviously knows the dance backwards and forwards, but every partnership has its symbiosis, its subtle compromises, and those usually take weeks to parse out, often excruciatingly – and his hands always hover at her hips the moment before she needs them there. He's just as smooth in his dancing as she expected, and there's something about his feet moving between hers that feels like home.

Several minutes pass as they dance. Emma watches their reflection in the mirror as he spins her in his arms, fascinated by how good they look together. He's all dark and brooding, bright blue eyes that never leave her face no matter how complicated the ferme he's doing, and she's all pale and small and blond, every fiber of her skin magnetically drawn to him. He's like a satellite, she realizes, and she has been orbiting him for as long as she's known him.

Now that she's in his pull, she's not sure she'll ever be able to escape.

The music starts to build, the pas de deux swelling to its climax, and she's on the other side of the studio before she knows it, and Killian's staring at her, his gaze full of questions that she doesn't have the answers to.

She knows what's coming next. This is the moment when she normally does an arabesque, three jetes, a pirouette, and then jumps fully into David's arms. This is the moment when David normally lifts her high into the air.

She knows Killian hasn't lifted a ballerina since his accident. And yet, she finds herself leaping across the room toward him, ignoring the warning bells in her head because the draw to him burns hotter.

(It always has, after all.)

She doesn't remember stepping into the warm enclave of Killian's arms. She only registers his hands hard on her waist, lifting her up until she's prone above him, the air still and calm.

After only a moment – a moment that stretches into forever, a moment that coats her veins with a feeling she doesn't have words for – he lowers her down, every inch of her body brushing against every inch of his until his nose lingers on hers, the touch tender. His hands don't leave her waist, and he simply holds her there.

The tension between them is as vibrant as it always is. She can feel him hard through the thin fabric of his leotard, and her heart is beating faster than it should be after the uncomplicated dance. He's so close, his breath fanning over her face, and her hands are clasped between their bodies. His eyes are full of that _something_ that has haunted her since he first caught her off-guard in this very studio, and she wants to feel him, wants to feel him so badly that her palms itch.

But the urge to know him overwhelms the urge to get under his skin.

"I never knew you could do that," she breathes, her fingers gripping the lapels of his button-down.

He chuckles, his wrist curling a little tighter on the juncture between her hip and her waist. "I didn't, either."

She steps back, blinking rapidly. "You weren't sure you could lift me?"

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "No, I was sure, love. I just didn't know I could do it until I did."

She grins, a tiny thing that radiates from her lips to her toes. She hears the unspoken words, the knowledge that even though he's choreographed dozens of productions since his accident, he hasn't tried to lift a ballerina until now.

Until her.

She can't help herself – she asks the question threatening to burst from her mouth. "Why now?"

He scratches that telltale spot behind his ear. Ooh, she's gotten to him.

He shrugs, his cheeks reddening slightly. "I'm – I'm not sure exactly," he admits, and now his eyes are full of wonder, a wonder so bright she almost has to look away. "I was just dancing, like I do most mornings – I really do enjoy choreography, love, don't get me wrong, but sometimes a man needs to do the thing he loves most. I saw you standing there watching, and I just knew I could do it."

Her smile grows wider. "So I inspire you?" She asks cheekily, tilting her head.

He smiles, too, broad and sure. "Obviously, love," he says. "But you knew that already."

Emma drops her gaze to his hands on her waist. She's never paid much attention to his injured hand. She's seen other dancers unable to take their eyes off the map of scars dotting his skin; she's watched David, Regina, Elsa, even Mary Margaret almost unknowingly stare at the physical evidence that he will never be a star again. But she has merely catalogued his hand as a part of the puzzle that's Killian Jones – it's not the whole story.

Now, though, she takes his hand in hers, tracing the mottled pink skin with her eyes and her fingers. She catches his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"You know," she says conversationally, eyes steady on the weight of his hand in hers, warm and somehow familiar, despite the fact that she has never held his hand before, "You never told me how this happened."

"Oh, come now, love," he says lightly, and she can tell that he's trying – in vain – to keep his voice devoid of emotion. "You told me you knew the story the first time we met. And besides, everyone knows the story. It was a bit of a scandal, if you recall."

"No," she says, intertwining her fingers with his, the room so quiet that she hears his sharp inhale. "You never told me what happened."

Only now does she look up at him. He's smiling, tentatively, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's nervous, she realizes. He's worried that the story of his accident will change how she sees him.

So she squeezes his hand, gentle but firm, and tries to will him on with her eyes.

He stills for a moment, gripping her hand so tightly that she winces.

"Her name was Milah," he finally says, so softly that she has to strain to hear. "I met her when I started dancing at the ABT when I was 20. She was a decade older than me, a member of the corps, and she'd been with the corps for years. We fell in love. She was my first love, and I fell hard. I'd never met someone like her. She was a joy to watch dance. She was just…full of fire. Full of life. She certainly made me feel alive."

He chuckles, and she can't help but smile in return. She doesn't like the idea of Killian being in love with someone else, but she has to appreciate anyone who could give him that light in his eyes.

But he immediately sombers, and Emma's stomach clenches.

"She told me we had to keep it secret," he explains. "At the time, it made total sense to me. I was young, a rising principal soloist in the ABT, and relationships between members of the company were strongly discouraged. She told me she didn't want to risk any damage to my career, and I believed her."

He sighs, running his free hand through his hair, and Emma takes a step towards him, sensing he needs her close.

"But about two years after we started seeing each other, Milah told me that she was actually married," he says. "In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. She was married to Mr. Gold – you know him, right? He's on the board of the ABT, a really powerful guy. Well, apparently he found out, because one day Milah and I were driving to rehearsal when we got into a car accident. Milah was killed on impact, and well, you know what happened to my hand."

Emma cringes. "It was Gold?"

Killian looks away. "Aye."

Emma stills. She has no idea what to say, and the silence stretches out between them for a long moment.

Finally, Killian's eyes meet hers, and he swallows, hard. "I didn't deal with the grief well," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I slept around a lot, drank a lot, blew off ballet for a while. I couldn't dance anymore, and I didn't know what to do with myself. It was David who brought me back, of course –" Emma's eyes widen, but she really shouldn't be surprised, given David's penchant for saving the downtrodden "– And now here I am."

Emma can't help herself – she wraps her arms around him, persisting even when he stiffens in her grasp. "It wasn't your fault, you know," she says, and she needs him to believe it, she can't stand the pain in his eyes. "It was Gold's."

"I know," Killian says, the words muffled in her hair. "But Milah still died, and I still ruined my career. It's a weight I'll carry with me forever."

Emma pulls back, looking at him with steady eyes. This man has endured so much, and yet he's still here.

"What about you, Swan?" He asks abruptly, his eyes uneasy, his voice shaking, and she can tell that his confession has cost him and he can't talk about it any longer. "Any skeletons in your closet?"

She smiles faintly. This isn't a story she divulges often – it had taken her months to even scratch the surface with Ruby and Elsa – but with Killian, it feels right somehow.

"I was in the foster system when I was a kid," she admits, squeezing his hand for support, so hard that she must cut off his circulation. "Never had a permanent home, not until one of my foster mothers worked at the ABT and suggested I try dancing. And then ballet became my home. I moved all the time, but I never stopped dancing."

She has to look down now, away from Killian's piercing gaze. That was the easy part.

"I met Neal when I was 17," she continues, her eyes fixating on Killian's angry map of scars, a testament to all he's overcome, for strength. "I should have known that he was dangerous, that I was going to get my heart broken, but he was the first person who had ever cared about me for me and not for the paycheck I could bring, and I fell head over heels for him. I was a kid off the streets who depended on ballet for everything, and he was a rich kid going through a rebellious phase. We started to steal stuff – small stuff first, just normal shoplifting. But then he got cocky."

She takes an uneven breath, feeling unable to say another word. But Killian's fingers are on her chin, tipping her face up towards his, and when she meets his gaze, he's looking at her like he always does.

He's looking at her like she's the sun and he wants to bask in her glow forever.

"Neal wanted us to move to Tallahassee," she says, forcing herself to keep looking at Killian, even when her eyes start to burn with unshed tears. "He was trying to get away from his father, and so we concocted this scheme with some watches. Long story short, he set me up to take the fall for him, and I ended up in jail for a year. And that was when, of course, I discovered that I was pregnant with Henry."

She shakes her head, letting herself lean into Killian, softening as his hands drift down her body to encircle her waist. "I couldn't give him up," she explains. "I'd never had anything of my own before, and I already loved him. So I left ballet, and I took care of Henry. And then one day David called me and told me I couldn't stop dancing. And truthfully, I'd never really stopped dancing. So I went back into it, and – well, you know the rest."

Killian nods, his eyes impossibly gentle. "Not all men are like Neal, you know," he says, voice soft and sure. "Not all men are going to leave you."

Emma smiles. "I know."

And remarkably, she does.

…

A week before opening night, Henry comes down with the flu. It happens suddenly, too suddenly for Emma to prepare – one moment he's happily eating pizza in front of the TV, the next he's burning up, lethargic, unwilling to eat anything. She's up half the night with him, soothing him with a cool towel as he tosses and turns.

In the morning, she takes one look at him and knows that he can't go to school. His fever hasn't broken, and he's murmuring nonsense. She can't leave him alone either – he's only 10, he can't take care of himself. And there's no one to call. All her friends work at the Joffrey.

She briefly considers staying home from work, but rejects the idea pretty much immediately. The Joffrey has been incredibly understanding of her situation as a single mother, but Swan Lake premieres in seven days. She has to dance today, or else her understudy will probably take her role.

And she has worked too hard to let that happen.

Eventually, she decides to take Henry to the studio with her. She agonizes the entire time they're in the cab (she normally takes the subway, but Henry can barely stand, so she splurges just this once), wondering where the hell she's going to put him once they get there, how she's going to explain this to her boss. Her mind is on a negative feedback loop as they head downtown, and by the time they arrive at the studio, she's worked herself into such a frenzy that her heart is working overtime.

Instead of beelining for the locker room like she normally does, she goes to the warm-up studio, hoping she can catch David and they can devise some sort of plan.

But of course, it's only Killian in the studio.

His eyes widen when he sees her, no doubt taking in the sight of her almost-teenager in her arms (Henry would never normally let her hold him, a testament to how awful he's feeling), the bags under her eyes, her anxious energy.

"Swan," he greets her, and despite her dire situation, she can't help but warm at the concern in his voice. "Everything okay?"

She shakes her head frantically, not trusting herself to speak – she really might cry. Being a single mother has always been more a source of joy than stress, but today, she feels like she's failed at her most important job.

Killian approaches her slowly, as if afraid of scaring her off, and asks quietly, "Your boy is sick?"

She nods, her lower lip trembling.

He's right in front of her now, and almost without thinking, she leans into him, sighing gratefully when his arm comes around her, supporting her weight. He strokes Henry's hair with his bad hand, and her breath catches in her throat.

"I take it you didn't want to leave him alone at home," he says, his hand still lingering on Henry's forehead. "There's a cot in my office – he can sleep there, and I can check on him whenever you want."

She raises an eyebrow at him, finally finding her voice. "You have a cot in your office?"

He grins at her, and she could cry with relief at how much better she feels already. This stupid, amazing man will be the death of her.

"Yes, I do Swan," he says. "Care to test it out with me?"

He waggles his eyebrows, and she giggles, suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion so strong that it would bring her to her knees if he weren't already holding her up.

"In your dreams," she shoots back, praying he won't notice the tremor in her voice.

If he does, he doesn't comment, instead just laughing and leading her and Henry out of the studio down the hall. They're quiet as they walk toward his office, and she surprises herself with how strangely comfortable she feels, in the quiet cocoon of warmth that he's somehow created for them. No one else is in the studio yet, and she feels safe, inexplicably.

They arrive at his office after a moment, and Killian takes Henry out of her arms without prompting. He lays him down on the cot unbearably gently, gently enough that Emma's heart clenches, and then they go back to the studio.

Throughout the day, Killian periodically checks on Henry so Emma can rehearse like she needs to without the distraction of worrying about her sick son. Normally she wouldn't trust anyone else to confirm that her son is okay, but Killian has put Henry to bed countless times, and he has proven to her at this point that he cares about her son even apart from caring about her. So she takes his updates on Henry gratefully, and she dances like her life depends on it.

When rehearsals have finished, Emma hurriedly collects her belongings and rushes down the hall to Killian's office, only to find Killian already there. Emma stops short in the doorway, because Killian is sitting on the cot next to her prostate son, coaxing him to wake, and she wants this moment to last forever. She watches as Henry gradually emerges from his slumber, watches as his skinny arms curl around Killian's neck, watches as he murmurs, "Killy, can we go home?" She watches as Killian smiles so softly and scoops Henry into his arms.

Killian stills when he stands and sees Emma waiting there. "Oh Swan, I'm sorry," he stutters, the tips of his ears pink. "I just –"

"It's fine, it's fine," she reassures him, stroking Henry's forehead and trying to ignore the hiccup in her chest that's reacting to Killian looking for all the world like her kid's father. "Actually, you know, he's a little too heavy for me to carry these days – any chance you'll escort us home?"

Killian's answering grin makes Emma feel warm, and his nod makes her feel weak.

They make their way to Emma's apartment in comfortable silence, and Emma has no desire for him to leave. He must sense this, because he whispers to her that he can whip up something for dinner if she wants to go make sure Henry is all set.

She just smiles at him.

She puts Henry to bed, inwardly squealing when her darling son drowsily asks if Killian will watch a movie with them later, and when she emerges from his bedroom, Killian is standing at the stove, making what smells like chicken noodle soup, and it's a sight she could get used to.

She walks up to him and wraps her arms around his back, pressing her face to his shirt without thinking. She's breaking all her own rules, but he's so warm and the soup smells so good and no one, not even Mary Margaret and David, has ever taken care of her and Henry like this.

"Smells good," she says lightly, thinking that she'll stay wrapped around him like this for as long as he'll let her.

He merely hums in response, and she closes her eyes, so content she could fall asleep.

"Thank you," she says, "For everything."

He twists in her arms to face her, his eyes the lightest blue she's ever seen them, so soft that she sways toward him. "Of course," he says, skimming his lips across her forehead and then leaning down to touch his forehead to hers, their breath mingling together. "Emma, you know I'd do anything for you and your boy."

Emma smiles. "I know."

The soup simmers on the stove, Henry sleeps in the next room, and Emma and Killian stand there, foreheads touching.

Emma thinks she has never felt safer.

…

It's opening night, and Emma is practically vibrating with anticipation. She thinks it's excitement – she's been waiting for a role like this since she was 12 years old, and she has no idea how she got so lucky as to have this opportunity – but as her stomach refuses to quiet down, even a half hour before curtain, she realize she's more nervous than anything else.

She's sitting in her dressing room, hands twining and intertwining over and over again in her lap. She's wearing her first costume of the night, the cream-colored fabric scratchy and foreign on her skin, her make-up thoroughly applied, rouge splashed liberally on her cheeks. She's already laced up her pointe shoes. She's running through the steps of the first dance in her head, the plies, the jetes. She's ready.

But she can't breathe. She literally can't breathe. She's doubled over, her head between her knees, her pulse humming loudly in her ears. She can barely think right now. All she can feel is sweat pooling beneath her leotard. She can't do this, she really can't do this.

Her dressing room door swings open, and in walk David and Mary Margaret, clad in their glittery costumes and carrying a bouquet of snowdrops. "Emma!" They both exclaim warmly, and Emma looks up, eyes harried, cheeks probably bright with hectic spots of red.

Mary Margaret's kind eyes immediately widen, and she drops to her knees before Emma, taking her hands in her own. "Emma," she says again, this time so soft that Emma can barely hear her over the dizziness threatening to overtake her. "What do you need?"

Emma starts to shake, hard shudders that ripple through her entire body. Mary Margaret just waits, her gaze never wavering, and her eyes on hers are the only thing that keep her from totally falling apart.

Emma can feel the world slowly start to quiet as she stares at Mary Margaret. She can see David in her periphery, his presence comforting. She can feel the time tick away, and she feels herself start to calm just by looking into her friend's eyes. It's the look of patience, of understanding, of compassion, on her oldest friend's face that gives Emma the courage she needs to ask for the only thing that will help her right now.

"Killian," she breathes.

To her credit, Mary Margaret doesn't even blink. She simply turns her head a little and nods to David, who gives his wife an answering nod before slipping out the door.

Emma heaves a little sigh of relief. Killian will be here any moment. She can hold onto whatever sanity she has left until he shows up.

She won't think about what it means that she needs him to be okay right now.

Mary Margaret stays where she is, stroking soothing circles on Emma's fingers, and Emma tries to keep it together.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, the dressing room door opens again, and Killian's there, looking so damned handsome in his tuxedo that Emma's heart turns over in her chest, looking so damned concerned that she feels her whole world grind to a halt in the force of those _blueblueblue_ eyes.

"Swan," he growls, and Emma shivers. God, she loves hearing her name on his lips.

Emma watches him through hooded eyes as he exchanges a quick glance with Mary Margaret, who gets up without so much as a moment's hesitation. She squeezes Emma's hand, whispers, "You're going to be amazing, I know it," and then she's gone.

And then it's just Emma and Killian, breathing in the same air, existing in the same space.

He's by her side in an instant, his arms around her before she takes her next breath. Before she even knows what's happening, his fingers are on her chin, gently turning her face toward him so her eyes are locked on his. She feels her heart rate lower as she sees the worry, the adoration in his gaze. She should be scared of the strength of his emotion, she knows. But right now, she can't find it in herself to be scared. All she feels is calm.

"Swan," Killian says again, his fingers stroking from her eyebrow to her lips in a soothing motion. "You're going to be amazing. You're going to be okay."

Emma gulps, and without thinking she fists her hands in his shirt, needing to feel his heartbeat beneath her palm. "I'm scared," she admits, and it's the first time she's said those words out loud. "I'm scared of letting everyone down, of letting Henry down. I'm just scared."

Killian's fingers still on her cheek, and he looks at her with more tenderness than she knows what to deal with. "You won't let your boy down. You won't let anyone down."

He sounds so sure that Emma melts, just a little bit.

"How do you know?" She asks, and normally she would hate herself for sounding so small, but this is Killian, this is Killian looking at her like she hung the moon and holding her face like she's unexplainably precious to him, this is Killian reaching into her and understanding her, this is Killian making a home in her soul.

He grins now, wide and unrestrained. "I've yet to see you fail, love."

Emma can't help but smile back, at such peace that she almost doesn't recognize the feeling.

"Thank you," she says, leaning her forehead against his and breathing in his distinct smell. He smells like the sea. He smells like home.

"Anytime, Swan," he whispers.

She knows he means it.

And so they stay there, foreheads touching, heartbeats mingling. They stay there until it's time to go. They stay there until the last possible moment. They stay there until Emma can breathe, until she knows she can do this.

And then, she stands up, and she gets ready to dance.

…

It's opening night, and Emma dances better than she ever has. She can almost feel the electricity vibrating beneath her skin as she jumps and spins across the stage. She feels like she's pulsating with energy, verve overflowing in her every movement. She and David have never been more in sync, and she feels so in step with the entire corps that they're like a unit. It's invigorating, intoxicating, and she feels like she might catch fire, right here under the lights.

The curtain falls more quickly than she's prepared for, and she's never been more grateful for the grueling three months of performances ahead of her. She could dance this role forever.

She does her final bows, squeezing David's hand so tightly that he probably loses circulation, hugging Mary Margaret and Ruby and Elsa and even Regina with so much reckless abandon that her heart threatens to burst.

The curtain closes and whisks all the dancers away, and the next thing Emma knows, she's in Killian's arms, warm and real and so comforting that she starts to cry.

"You were bloody brilliant, Swan!" He's exclaiming now, his breath hot and welcome in her ear. "You were so bloody brilliant!"

Emma's grinning, wider than she can bear, and then suddenly Killian's lips are on hers, hard and unyielding and so uncomplicatedly perfect that she sighs into it. She leans into him, against him, lost in a bliss so profound that she can't hear anything, can't feel anything, except his hands in her hair and his solid form against her.

They break apart, and now he's leaning his forehead against hers in that heartwrenchingly endearing way of his, and his hand is on her cheek, and she can't breathe.

"Sorry, love," he whispers, and she can tell he's not sorry at all. "I just got carried away."

She can't help herself – she giggles.

"Shut it, Jones," she shoots back, not even bothering to pretend that she has her breathing under control. "We both know you can't resist my charms."

He raises an eyebrow at her, and the adoration is back in his eyes, heavy and heady and all kinds of dangerous (a dangerous she just can't walk away from, not today). "Aye, Swan," he affirms, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I definitely can't resist you."

She just smiles.

…

But they don't talk about the kiss.

It's not for lack of trying, of course – at least on Killian's part. He corners her after rehearsals, waits for her in her dressing room when the curtain falls, buys her a drink at cast get-togethers and coaxes as many words out of her as he can. He brings up the kiss several times – "I'm dying for a taste of those lips again, Swan," and "Don't leave a man hanging, Swan," and even, once, "Emma, at some point, even though we're quite different, you're going to have to trust me."

(She does trust him, that's the problem.)

But Emma entirely avoids the conversation. Part of it is because she's genuinely so busy and exhausted and overwhelmed that she can barely think straight – they have performances every day except Monday, and when she's not performing, she's in the studio working on her turnout, or taking cat naps in various cots around the theater, or tucking Henry in at night and collapsing beside him in his twin bed. She doesn't have time for anything except the lights of the stage and the roar of the crowd. The applause at the end of each performance fills her up, fills her up so completely that she doesn't have room to think about anything else but her dancing.

But she would be lying to herself if she said that she wasn't intentionally trying to get out of the conversation. She doesn't linger too long in her dressing room once she hits her last pirouette, doesn't let herself be alone with him for more than a couple minutes. It's not that she doesn't want to talk about the kiss – she wants to relive every moment of it, wants to slip under his skin and drink him in and never let him go.

But she's scared. She's so damned scared that every time she looks at him, her fight-or-flight instinct kicks into gear.

(Flight always wins.)

There was a moment of distinct clarity when he kissed her after opening night. His lips had been on hers, and his hands had been in her hair, and she had just known that he was what she wanted. She had tried to fool herself into thinking that it was just a fling, that the ache she felt for him was just physical. But in that moment, the chaos surrounding them fell away, and all that remained was the simple knowledge that he was it for her.

The trouble with that realization is that she's never been allowed to hold onto anything before. She's never had a family, never a real home. She's fought to hold onto Henry for as long as he's been alive, and even that has been a struggle. Every man she's ever loved has betrayed her or died.

Killian makes her want.

And she knows she can't keep him.

…

The production gets rave reviews.

Emma knew it would. Killian's choreography has blown her away since the moment she joined the company, and the caliber of the principal soloists and the corps surpasses anything she's ever seen. The entire Joffrey has poured their heart and soul into the production, and it shows.

The Chicago Tribune calls the Joffrey's production of Swan Lake "the best precision and technique of this generation." The New York Times, which tends to ignore the Midwestern ballet companies, publishes several articles about how Swan Lake has blown all the other productions out of the water.

Emma wants to talk to Killian about it. She's so, so proud of him. But talking to him about the production's reviews would mean being alone with him again – it would mean talking to him about the kiss.

And she just can't do that right now.

...

About halfway through Swan Lake's run, the Joffrey gives all its dancers a day off. It's a rare gift – most days they have performances, and when they don't they're either doing some light practicing in the studio or cross-training so their muscles don't get tight. Naturally, Mary Margaret suggests she and Emma go out for a spa day. Henry is spending the day sailing with Killian (even if Emma's relationship with Killian has been strained and distant since their kiss, she won't deprive Henry of one of his only stable male figures), so Emma shrugs and relents. Mary Margaret can be quite pushy when she wants to be, and Emma is too exhausted to resist.

They spend the day getting pampered and fussed over. They get mani-pedis, facials, blowouts, and it's…nice. Emma has never considered herself a girly-girl, but there's something comforting about Mary Margaret's easy chatter.

Of course, Emma regrets agreeing to this day when they're getting massages before dinner, the masseuse working out kinks so gloriously that Emma is groaning, and Mary Margaret decides that they're going to talk about Killian.

"So," she says casually, her head turned away from Emma, "What's going on with you and Killian?"

Emma stiffens. "Nothing."

"Nothing? That kiss on opening night didn't look like _nothing_."

Emma glares at the back of Mary Margaret's head. "It was just a kiss. And anyways, it was a one-time thing."

"A one-time thing?" Mary Margaret echoes, sounding confused. "But you guys spend so much time together, and you always seem to get along so well, and I just thought –"

"You just thought we were falling for each other?" Emma can hear bitterness coating her words.

"Well –" Mary Margaret hesitates. "Yeah, I guess."

Emma doesn't say anything for a long moment. How could Mary Margaret possibly understand why Emma can't bring herself to take a chance with Killian? Mary Margaret met David in an audition for the ABT when they were just 16, and they've been inseparable ever since. Of course they've had hardships, but for the most part they epitomize true love. The three times Emma has given her heart away, the universe has screwed her over. Neal abandoned her when she was pregnant, Graham died in the line of duty, and Walsh cheated on her. How can she expect it to be different with Killian?

"Of course I have feelings for him," Emma says quietly, feeling so vulnerable that she has to close her eyes. "But I don't trust men. And he's good for Henry. I can't do anything that will jeopardize Killian being in Henry's life."

Mary Margaret blindly reaches out to clasp Emma's hand, squeezing hard. "Oh, Emma," she breathes, and Emma has to blink back tears; sometimes she forgets that no one has ever cared about her like Mary Margaret does (except for Killian now, she guesses). "I don't think you could do anything that would jeopardize Killian being in Henry's life. Or yours, for that matter. I don't think he's going anywhere."

Emma gulps. "I mean, it's obvious he just wants to sleep with me and then he'll be done with me. David did say he has a reputation in the company for being a bit of a manwhore."

"Oh come on, Emma," Mary Margaret says fondly. "You know that's just David being overprotective. Yeah, Killian has slept with some dancers in the company, but that's not a crime. And besides, everyone knows it's different with you."

Emma bites her lip. "You don't know that. Not everyone gets your kind of love story."

Mary Margaret squeezes Emma's hand again. "I know," she says softly. "But I think you will. You're a lot more special than you think you are. And that man looks at you like he wants to drown in you."

Emma scoffs but doesn't say anything. On some level, she knows Mary Margaret is right. She knows how Killian looks at her. She knows how Killian feels about her. She's been at the Joffrey Ballet for almost six months, and he has never wavered, not even once. He is the most constant person in her life, and she can't ignore that no matter how hard she tries to push him away, he has never left her side.

"I know," she says quietly, burying her head in the massage table to avoid having to face any of this. "I know."

…

Mary Margaret's words stay with Emma, and when Killian drops off Henry at their apartment after dinner, Emma invites him in for a hot chocolate.

His eyes are soft when he says yes, and of course, he can't help but tease her. "Did you miss me, Swan?"

Emma looks at him steadily. "Yeah, I did."

…

They build their friendship back up slowly. Killian joins Emma and Henry for dinner before their performance the next Friday, and then the next Friday, and the next one, but he respects her boundaries, wishing her goodnight after every curtain call and brushing his lips across her cheek. The production goes on smoothly, and Emma takes a chance, letting him be there for her more and more, from everything to giving her a foot massage at intermission when she feels like she can't dance another step to comforting her when a ballet magazine writes a scathing review of her form. She tests him almost without meaning to, asking him to take care of Henry when she just needs some alone time, ranting at him when she's tired and cranky and dancing another act seems utterly impossible.

He, of course, doesn't let her down. And if he realizes that she's trying her hardest to finally let him in, he doesn't comment. He just continues to be there for her, to the point that he becomes the first person she texts in the morning ("Yo, Jones, let's get bagels from that place on 5th before rehearsal") and the last person she texts before she falls asleep ("Goodnight Killian, thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder for the millionth time").

To Emma's surprise, he leans on her just as much, and she never thinks it of as a burden. In fact, she practically delights in it. She advises him when he's agonizing over how to tell a soloist that she's being replaced for a night's performance, reassuring him that he's making the right choice and that the dancer won't take it personally. She brings him dinner when he's working on the choreography for the Joffrey's next production late into the night, kneading his shoulders when he confesses that he's not sure he can ever replicate Swan Lake's success. And she holds him when the anniversary of Milah's death arrives and the curtain falls after an exhausting week of performances and his face is white as the company does their bows; without even thinking she pulls him into her dressing room and wraps her arms around his shaking frame and lets him cry.

He has been her person for as long as she has been at the Joffrey, and now, she lets herself become his. It feels right.

It feels like home.

He doesn't try to talk to her about the kiss anymore. She's glad, really – she's still not ready to sort through all her complicated feelings for him, and they're in the middle of a ridiculously intense production. She doesn't have time for anything but their easy camaraderie and witty banter. She knows she'll have to face whatever's between them eventually, of course – she's not naïve, after all, and she can tell they've been building toward something for months – but for now, she's content to let things be.

Of course, it's not quite as easy to push her attraction to him aside. Dancers tend to be shirtless most of the time in rehearsal, and Killian is no exception – he hardly ever bothers with a shirt when the company is doing light practicing on the weekends, and he's all tan skin stretched over sinewy muscle, all lean lines and delicate strength, and Emma sweats more than she should doing simple plies. And she really can't help herself at movie nights at her apartment anymore – Henry is very free with his physical affection, and so he forces the three of them to sit uncomfortably close, close enough that when Killian's arm drapes across the back of the couch, his fingers skim the tops of Emma's shoulders and she has to bite down the urge to shiver. He seems to be flirting with her more.

Or maybe, Emma has just stopped pretending she doesn't want to jump his bones.

…

The last performance of Swan Lake goes off without a hitch, and just like opening night, Emma dances better than she ever has. Dancing in a major production means eight performances a week, and some of them blur together. Some of them, she'll admit, have not been her best dancing. But tonight, she can feel her energy pulsating, can feel her bones singing as she hits every complicated step and lands every high jump. She can tell that this is her best performance yet, and the exhilaration has her feeling invincible.

Normally, she's scared of what will happen once the high wears off. She's chased the high her whole life – never with drugs or alcohol because of Henry, of course, but with as much ballet as she can and frequently adrenaline-filled runs – because she hates the emptiness that inevitably sets in afterward. But this time, she knows what comes next, and she's excited. The Joffrey will get a week off to recover from Swan Lake – she and Henry are going to David and Mary Margaret's lake house to snowshoe and sit by the fire – and then auditions for Hansel and Gretel will begin. Emma knows she won't be the lead, but she has a good shot at being a soloist, and that's good enough for her. She likes dancing at this company. She likes the people. She likes Chicago.

She likes it here.

The curtain falls, and the best six months of her life come to a close. It's strangely bittersweet, and she finds herself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug before she takes her next breath. Mary Margaret is crying and stroking her hair in that motherly way of hers, David is pounding her on the back and telling her that he could not be prouder of her, Regina is making wisecrack after wisecrack, Elsa is squeezing her so tightly that she feels the air leave her lungs, and Robin and Graham are laughing loudly.

And of course Killian is there, smiling at her so wide and so genuine that she feels real butterflies. But he's only by her side for a moment, because then the entire theater goes quiet and all eyes are on him –

And now he's speaking. Oh god, he's speaking and she's mesmerized because she's in love with him and has been for longer than she's been able to admit to herself.

Yeah, there it is. Of course she's in love with him.

She probably has been since he made fun of her that very first day.

His speech is a blur. He thanks the production crew, the corps, the director of the Joffrey, all the principal soloists, Mary Margaret, Elsa, David.

And then he's thanking Emma, and she can't focus on anything but his _blueblueblue_ eyes, burning at her with intensity even from across the stage. She's standing there at the front of the stage, still in her white tutu and swan mask from the final act, and she's shaking.

"You all know Emma Swan is a tour de force," he's saying, scratching that spot behind his ear. "She has always been one of the best prima ballerinas the dance world has ever seen. Now that I've spent six months working with her, I can safely say that she is the best prima I have ever seen. Her instincts are unparalleled, her technique is flawless, and she has a work ethic that rivals that of a Navy seal."

The audience laughs at that, and Emma can't help but laugh, too. She prides herself on her work ethic. She's always the first one in the studio in the morning, and she's _always_ the last one out. It's ingrained in her by her days in the foster care system – working hard was the only way she survived the constant shuffling.

"But what you may not know about Emma Swan," Killian continues, and Emma loses control a little more every minute, "Is that she's not just a phenomenal dancer. She's a dancer who makes everyone around her better, too. I've seen her give amazing advice on pirouettes, I've seen her spend countless hours working with the corps to make sure everyone is in sync, I've seen her encourage everyone after a grueling day of rehearsals. And she has certainly made me a better choreographer. She challenges me on movements until I'm certain that a fourette is a better choice than a ferme. She forces me to think harder about whether I'm being the best teacher I possibly can be."

He pauses, turning to look at Emma, and her breath catches in her throat. The whole theater is quiet.

"As a choreographer, though, my most useful tool, the thing I can't live without, is inspiration," he says, his gaze locked with hers. "And Emma Swan is inspiration personified. To watch her dance is to remember why I started dancing in the first place. This kind of passion does not come around every day, and I could not be more grateful that Emma Swan came to the Joffrey. She is my muse, and I am thankful for her every day."

Emma swallows, hard.

Killian doesn't look away.

…

Once the bows have finished, the cast celebrates with champagne backstage. There's more hugging and crying, and everyone is drunk on success and the feeling of finally being done with a months-long project. Ruby and Elsa suggest going out for drinks, and everyone agrees, but Emma begs off. Henry is backstage now, too, with his earnest smile and excitable babble, and it's Friday. All she wants to do is curl up on the couch with her kid and watch Peter Pan like they planned to.

Killian comes over to say hi to Henry, who squeals and hugs him hard. Killian meets Emma's eyes over Henry's glorious brown-haired head and smiles at her, and Emma smiles back. She never thought she would see Henry get so attached to a man. He hasn't even gotten this close to David, and it's nice to see. He deserves a good male role model; he's seen enough uncommitted men flit in and out of Emma's life.

Henry pulls back from Killian, only to look up at him adoringly and exclaim, "Come home with us and watch Peter Pan! Please, please, please, we're going to eat popcorn and candy and get under the blankets because it's cold out, please come!"

Killian looks at Emma again, a question in his eyes, a question he's been asking for months now, a question she knows she has to answer right now. She's been dodging it for long enough, and he deserves better than that.

So she nods shyly, and his grin is so wide that she almost kisses him right then and there.

She doesn't, of course.

(But really, only because of Henry.)

…

Killian, Emma, and Henry watch Peter Pan together, curled up on the couch and passing around a bowl of popcorn, just like they have most weeks for the past several months. It's comfortable, familiar, as it always is, and Emma takes a moment to appreciate how easy it is to just be with him. To just exist with him.

But the air between them has shifted, and they can both feel it. So she's bold with him. She wraps an arm around Henry and purposely lets her hand brush Killian's arm, enjoying the hitch in his breath when her fingers curl around his bicep. She locks eyes with him whenever Henry is distracted and lets some of the desire she's held back for so long flood her gaze. And she makes a couple teasing, thinly veiled seductive remarks that have his cheeks stained with red and his mouth falling open in response. She's bold, because she wants him, and it feels like he might be her future.

Henry falls asleep toward the end of the movie, his head lolling into Killian's lap. Emma would be jealous that her son prefers Killian's lap to her own, but the picture they make is so damn adorable that instead she almost squeals.

Emma Swan _never_ squeals.

The movie comes to a close, and Killian looks at Emma, his expression unreadable. "I can put your boy to bed if you like?"

Emma nods, admiring the way the light from the lamp is slanting through his messy hair. "Of course."

He stands up, pulling Henry into his well-muscled arms, and she watches him as he strides across her small apartment into Henry's room. She stands in the doorway of her son's bedroom, unable to take her eyes off Killian as he bends over and deposits Henry in his bed. He smoothes Henry's hair down and kisses him on the forehead, and that's it – Emma is a goner.

She can see it clearly now. She wants Killian to be here every night, to tuck Henry in and then come to bed with her. She wants them to be a family. Maybe she always has.

Killian turns to leave Henry's room, and Emma quickly scrambles to the kitchen, pretending to busy herself with tidying up glasses and plates that don't need to be tidied. Her heart is pounding so fast, so hard, and she finds that she can't really breathe.

She turns, only to see Killian shrugging on his coat and preparing to leave, just like he does every Friday once the movie is over. She knows he's only giving her space, knows he's only respecting what she's made clear over the past few weeks. But she doesn't want him to leave. She doesn't want him to leave, and he's so considerate of her feelings that he's not going to make a move unless she –

"Wait."

The word is out of her mouth before she has time to regret it.

Killian's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. "Swan?"

Emma swallows. It's now or never.

She walks toward him, trying not to let the way his gaze sweeps over her body liquefy her bones. It's useless, though. Watching lust cloud his normally clear eyes is a heady feeling.

All at once, she's right in front of him, and she puts one hand on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath her fingers. She looks up at him, drinks in the pure love shining in his eyes. It's probably been there for a long time, but this is the first time she's let herself see it.

"Swan?" He asks again, a breathy note in his voice that makes her lean into him.

"Jones," she says, biting her lip and swaying on her feet. His eyes linger on her lips, and she stares at him, wondering when she let him all the way in.

It doesn't matter, though, not really. All that matters is that it happened, and that she doesn't want to take it back.

She holds Killian's gaze, and then, she closes her eyes, reaches up on her tiptoes, and kisses him. It's short, sweet, almost like a habit, like she's done it every day for as long as she can remember, like she'll do it every day for the rest of her life. His lips taste like cinnamon, and he's so close, he smells like the sea.

He smells like home.

She pulls back, and he leans his forehead against hers. She can feel him breathing heavily.

"Well, that was a surprise, love," he says lightly, chuckling. She can tell he's giving her an out, a way to laugh it off if she wants to pretend it didn't happen, and it's an olive branch she doesn't want.

She looks at him, stroking his scruffy cheek with her hand, her fingers lingering on his jawbone. "I love you," she says quietly.

His eyes widen. "Emma, I –"

She puts her finger on his lips. "No, it's my turn," she insists, smiling a little when a look of profound awe settles on his face. "I love you. You probably already know that, since you know me far better than I ever intended you to –"

"That I do, love, that I do," he interrupts, and she giggles.

"You deserve to hear it from me, though," she continues, looking at him seriously. He's so beautiful, always has been, and he's so good to her. "You've been so patient with me. I've pushed you away a million times, and you always come back. You stay. No one in my life has ever stayed. So. I love you."

She's shocked that somehow she's managed to say it three times. She guesses she's really grown up now.

But Killian is quiet for so long that she worries she's said something wrong. He's just staring at her, his eyes full of an emotion that overwhelms her yet somehow stabilizes her, and his hand is on her face, his fingers tracing her dimples.

"Killian?" Emma asks after a while, nervous that she has completely misread all the signs.

He just smiles.

"Emma," he says, shaking his head fondly, and her knees threaten to buckle beneath her – except then his arm is around her waist, and she's leaning all her weight on him (she's been leaning on him for as long as she's known him).

He steps even closer to her, tilting her chin just so and skimming his lips over hers once, twice, three times. She shakes beneath his touch.

"Obviously I bloody love you," he all but growls, and then his lips are on hers again, but this time his tongue is sweeping in, too, hot and heavy and demanding, and she's giving as good as she's getting, twining her hands in his hair and pressing her body against the full length of his, and she feels like she's drowning, drowning and she never wants to come up for air.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, "Can I take you to bed now?"

She kisses him hard, murmuring against his lips, " _Please_."

...

The next few hours pass in a hazy blur of pleasure. Later, Emma will remember very little about the night. Her memory will only supply snapshots, pictures that fill her up when she feels empty – pictures of Killian walking her backward into her bedroom, his lips tracing a fiery path from her jaw to her collarbone; pictures of Killian hovering above her in her bed, his weight more comforting than she has words for as he kisses her like a man on his dying breath; pictures of Killian licking his way down her body, his every touch like fire as he takes her over the edge over and over again.

But one moment will linger for her, a moment she'll replay in her head countless times. It's the moment right before he enters her, when he's pressed up against her in all the right ways, when his forehead rests on hers, when his hands are holding her face like she is the most precious thing he has ever held.

He lifts his head slightly to look at her. "I love you, you know," he says, his voice gruff with emotion. "I've waited for you a long time."

She smiles, and it's a soft thing, something so pure she almost wants to cry. "I didn't know I was waiting for you," she admits, kissing his fingers, relishing his skin against hers. "But I'm glad I was."

He grins, brighter than the sun, and then he's inside her, and her mind goes blank because it is the most surreal feeling, too wonderful to explain.

The rest she doesn't remember – the rest is all pleasure, all sighs and moans and her world unraveling and putting itself back together.

It's perfect.

…

Afterward, they lay in bed talking for hours, trading secrets and feelings like they're at a middle school sleepover. He confesses that he doesn't quite believe in love at first sight but that he was drawn to her from the very beginning; she tells him how long she has struggled with the strength of her pull to him. They talk about their pasts, the pain that has dominated both their lives, and he holds her close when she tells him that she pushed him away for so long because Neal made her believe she was unlovable.

She's surprised at how much comfort she finds in his arms.

Exhausted from the heavy conversation, they finally leave bed to make hot chocolate with cinnamon – it's four in the morning, but Emma's craving for her favorite drink has never been stronger. They have an easy camaraderie in the kitchen; Emma boils milk in a saucepan, while Killian retrieves her favorite mug and the mug he always uses on Friday nights from the cabinet. They're both quiet, but it's not awkward, and Emma wonders if this is what it's like to live with someone. She doesn't hate it.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that he's leaning against the counter only in his boxers, and he looks so delicious that Emma leaves her hot chocolate untouched for several minutes so she can taste him on her tongue instead.

They snuggle on the couch with their mugs, and Killian throws a blanket over her legs, pulling her close to his side. They sit in companionable silence for a while.

"Henry will be happy about this," Emma says softly after several minutes, smiling at the thought. "About us."

"Well," Killian says, his voice tender. "I do have a soft spot for your boy."

"And he for you," Emma says. "He loves having you around. He told me our Fridays together are his favorite part of the week."

Killian stills at this. "Really?"

Emma looks up at him, thrilled at how touched he clearly is. "Yes, really," she says gently, squeezing his arm. "He loves you. And I'm so glad you guys get along. Really makes my life easier. And makes me happy, of course. He needs a good male role model in his life."

Killian kisses the top of her head and doesn't say anything, clearly overcome by emotion.

Suddenly, though, a jarring thought occurs to Emma, and she claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god," she says, scrunching up her shoulders uncomfortably. "Mary Margaret is going to have a field day when she hears about this. She's going to be _so_ annoying. Ugh."

Killian raises an eyebrow, and Emma rushes to clarify. "She's been telling me for weeks that you and I should be together. She insists that we are 'made for each other,' whatever that means. You know how she is, all endless optimism and all that jazz."

Killian laughs, and she snuggles deeper into him. "I reckon David will also have a field day about us –" she can't help but thrill at the insinuation that they are an "us" – "He's been busting my balls ever since we kissed after opening night. He keeps telling me to man up and ask you out." He chuckles, kissing her forehead. "As if it's so easy to get Emma Swan to like you."

Emma laughs, lifting her head so she can look at him, taking in the sparkle in his eyes and the strong line of his jaw. "You know, once when I came into the studio early I overheard a couple of the dancers in the corps taking bets on when we would get together."

Killian grins, pulling her closer to him. "Well, Swan, it seems like everyone knew something we didn't."

Emma leans into him, brushing her nose against his and closing her eyes. "I have to say," she breathes, shifting so she can sit herself in his lap and feel every inch of his body. "I've never been so happy to be proven wrong."

"And I, Swan," he responds, wrapping his arms around her fully and gripping her sides, "Could not be happier that I proved you wrong."

And with that, he kisses her and takes her to bed again, and when it's over, she asks him to stay.

He tells her he loves her, and that that means he'll always stay.

At that, she finally cries.

…

He stays for breakfast the next morning.

He never leaves.


End file.
